Another life
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: There is no other life but this, and she won’t risk her fragile balance for him. Season 1, MichaelSara


"Do you ever think, in another life…"

She's surprised and slightly frightened that he's finally said it out loud. Of course she does. Daily. Every morning, when she wakes up alone and thinks about the day ahead. Every time he passes the door of the infirmary and she feels her heart beat faster in spite of her brain's protestations. But her darkest hours and her slow recovery have taught her to be thankful for what she has, for what _is_. Besides, she has promised herself to put an end to this, even though it sometimes feels like she's fighting a losing battle. For all his charms and good looks, Michael Scofield isn't any less a married prisoner with an unsettling gift for manipulation. She doesn't know much about him, but she suspects he knows how to get her exactly where he wants her.

"I won't be that woman, Michael," she says, with an assurance she doesn't feel. And she means it, because she won't allow herself to be. She would have been, years ago, sometime before she finally hit rock bottom and saw the chaos and misery that was her life flash in front of her eyes as she stood, paralyzed, in front of a dying child. The memory brings back a tingling pain in her stomach, a blinding shame that reinforces her shaking will.

"I wasn't asking you to be. But it is something to wonder about. What if? Anyway, I just wanted to make sure it was said."

And she resent him for it. The casualness of his voice is a biting contrast with the glimmer of hope it awakens. There's nothing to hope for, she reminds herself. There is no other life but this, and she can't risk her fragile balance for him. And then it strikes her. His words aren't an acknowledgment of what is, was or could have been. They're a barely disguised farewell.

"Why do I feel like you're saying goodbye to me?"

"I don't know. I guess in a place like this, you never know which day is gonna be your last."

She's almost sure that he's talking in code, but she doesn't understand what he's trying to say. She only knows that it's bad.

Before she has time to question him, Katie comes to interrupt and bring her back to reality.

"You're set." The appointment is over, but she's not ready to let go of him yet. She's burning to ask what he meant, when she suddenly remembers.

In med school, she was taught how to deliver the worst diagnosis; she learned how to tell a parent that his child had died. The right words, the proper tone, the body language that every doctor had to master. She tried to mimic the quiet benevolence of her teachers, but never got passed the initial awkwardness and dread. She never managed to stay unaffected as she watched someone else's world falling apart.

"I…I'm sorry about your brother." Was it her barely repressed feelings for him that made it sound like so little? No comforting word would ever change the fact that he was about to lose his only brother. She's not allowed to hold him, or even pat his arm, and she suspects that even if she could, it wouldn't be wise for either of them. It always seems much easier to suppress her affection for him when he's not right next to her, close enough to touch.

"Doctor." He catches her arm and caresses her wrist softly, so softly she wonders why his fingers are burning her skin so acutely. Her breath catches in her throat and she feels the warmth climb up her arm and expand. She's caught between panic and the most foreign elation, and she's not longer sure if she wants to push him out of the room or slam the door to give them the privacy they never had to explore all the what-ifs they both mused about. She doesn't look at him. She knows if she does, she'll forget all the reasons why she should throw him out of the room before the line is crossed. Her eyes are firmly set on his long, delicate fingers and she silently prays for him to either let go of her arm or grab her roughly to pull her against him.

"Thank you."

A second later, he's gone, and she's left alone with the desperate ache he's arisen.

Later, when she's lying in bed knowing she won't be able to sleep, she thinks about the men in her life and tries to remember if they ever caused her the same agitation, the same unabashed desire mixed with a sense of danger and apprehension. She's been with men who weren't meant for her and others who were exactly what the daughter of Franck Tancredi was expected to associate with. She's been courted and loved, but as she searches her memory with a frantic dedication, she can't recall any similar emotions in her past love life.

She even considers what could be, if she gave in to her most insane urges and initiated physical contact, in the infirmary room. The thought brings images so hazardous and delightful she lets herself imagine the feel of Michael's kiss, of his touch and the warmth of his solid body pressed against hers, all doors closed to keep reality at bay.

And for most of the night, she wonders if Michael Scofield sometimes lays in his prison bed at night, thinking about all the what-ifs.

It kills her that she'll never know.


End file.
